


To Remember the Fallen

by Wilder



Category: Samurai Deeper Kyo
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilder/pseuds/Wilder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akari remembers Hishigi, decades later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Remember the Fallen

It’s his birthday.

She can’t remember if it’s the 342nd or the 348th. Could be either, could be something else entirely. Akari doesn’t really know how old Hishigi was when he died. Centuries, she knew. Fewer than Fubuki and Muramasa, but centuries nonetheless. She decided one year, decades ago now, that he was two hundred and eighty, but she can’t even remember when that was. Maybe her memory’s going. She’s old enough.

Hell, she only knows the date because of Fubuki. One day, Fubuki had ducked into the lab, gave his friend curt congratulations, and left without another word. Akari doesn’t think the old Taishiro even noticed the young shaman hiding behind Hishigi’s chair. She knows that she was the only one to see Hishigi smile like that.

Akari never did leave Mibu territory. She’s the best medic they have, and they respect her almost the way they used to respect him. There’s a lot less fear involved – the Devil Eye is dead, and Akari hasn’t fought much since the Crimson Tower fell.

She decides to take a walk. Maybe it’s time to visit.

 

There are no bodies beneath this soil, but their names lie side by side, the way she knew they would have wanted to.

Hishigi, silver on black stone, with Hakuya half-buried in the earth before his starkly-printed name.

Fubuki, gold on white, his own blade’s guard crossed with Hakuya’s.

There’s another monument closer to the fallen tower, where Hishigi’s name is written in gold along with the other victims of the disease.

Akari hates it. Words revere a hero whom Hishigi was not. They fail to acknowledge his true nature.

Cool collection. Madness. Compassion. Cruelty. Love, buried beneath his work. Hate, hidden behind his drive. Simple black stone and a sword named White Night.

They are all Hishigi, and that flowing script is not.

Akari lets a few tears slide down her now-lined cheeks as she kneels before Hishigi’s grave.

“Thank you, Hishigi,” she whispers. “I hope you’re happy…wherever you are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Hishigi's birthday last year. Also, my headcanon is that Hishigi was around 900, so Akari's estimate is wayyyy off.


End file.
